Story Time
by slipshod
Summary: "Tell me a story," said the child, and the woman sighed and raked her fingers through the ends of her unbound hair.
1. Mal

Once upon a time I promised Faylinn a story involving some particular bandits. Which I now present the first bit of! Sorry about the wait and all that.

* * *

"Tell me a story," said the child, and the woman sighed and raked her fingers through the ends of her unbound hair.

"Once upon a time there was a stupid, stubborn girl with no discernable sense of self-preservation who lived in a forest. She was of a wondrous beauty, but she did not have any sense worth mentioning, and so she lived with a pack of slavering boys for whom no idiocy was too great or too implausible."

The two young men on either side of her grinned at each other over the top of her head.

The boy was ahead of them, walking backwards so he could follow the slightest of her movements with wide, serious eyes.

"One day as the girl was slaving away over a hot fire cooking a wondrous meal for the ingrates-"

Here she was interrupted by an unpleasant hacking sound, as of someone attempting to turn an incredulous snort into a convincing cough.

"-when she heard a terrible scream from somewhere in the forest."

"Was it a troll?" the boy whispered.

"No. Well- wait and see."

"Wait and see what? You said it wasn't."

"Shut up."

"But-"

"Do you want me to tell this story?"

"Yes."

"All right, then. A terrible scream came from the forest, and the girl knew right away that something was terribly wrong."

"What clued her in?"

The girl rounded fiercely on the young man to the left of her, who raised an eyebrow slightly in reply.

"Do you have a problem, Garvey?"

"Me? Whatever gave you that impression?"

"_Garvey_-"

"All right, all right, I will keep all further commentary to myself."

"I look forward to the novelty of it," she said coldly, "Where was I?"

"Our heroine heard a terrible scream from the forest and has cleverly deduced that something has gone awry." Garvey smiled at the look she gave him. "That doesn't count; you _asked._"

"_Anyway_, the screams continued and the girl kicked over the kettle and went running into the forest, sword in hand."

"What kind of sword? Was it magic?"

"It was just a sword. Further and further the girl ran, down wild paths tumbling over with brambles and leaves and shadows and those vines that stick to your ankles and prick you with thorns."

"I hate those."

"She ran until she could run no more, and all the while the shrieking got louder and louder. And finally, just when she was sure she couldn't go on, the path broke into a clearing and there it was!"

She paused for effect.

"Cinders," the young man on her right prescribed into the silence, "and willowbark."

Mal, from long years of experience, knew better than to waste a glare on him.

"It was a boy," she continued, "a slavering idiot boy with his head stuck between two trees. He stopped screaming when he saw the girl and tried to put on a brave face. 'I seem to be a bit stuck,' said he, 'but never fear, madam, I will free myself in a matter of moments!'

'I'll get the ax,' said the girl, wearily, but the boy shouted for her to stop.

'Do not trouble yourself, fair maiden,' said he, 'it will only be a second or two; please, by all means, make yourself at ease. I'm almost out.'

'Are you sure?' said the girl, and he laughed and spit and flexed his arms and did all the other sorts of things boys do when they're trying to appear manly and fearless.

And so for the next hour or so she hung around patiently, waiting for the fool to realize that he couldn't free himself. But of course he never did. So she went home."

The boy waited as patiently as he could for a moment, before touching her arm lightly. "Mal?"

"What?"

He blinked owlishly up at her. "What happened to the boy?"

"He rotted."

"Oh, that's pleasant," murmured Garvey, "you are one for the morality tales, aren't you?"

"Stupidity is deadly," Mal returned.

"Why didn't she get the axe anyway?" asked the boy

"Because you can't help someone who doesn't want it."

"Yes, you can, she could have got it and-"

"Who told the story, you or me?"

"You did," the boy said dutifully.

"That's right. So you can shut up."

He pondered this information for a moment, then turned to Mal's other dissident with expectant eyes.

"Now you."

"Now me, what?"

"Now you tell a story, too."

Garvey, who had been expecting this for quite some time, nodded and began:

"Long ago in a land across the mountains, there lived a man by the name of Ivar Everard, and he was a warrior..."


	2. Garvey

"Long ago in a land across the mountains, there lived a man by the name of Ivar Everard, and he was a warrior. He lived in a little town with his beautiful wife and baby son, and the three of them were content together. Ivar Everard was in the service of a lord, and when they weren't at war he hunted with the lord's party. He was swift and strong. He could put an arrow through a ring at four hundred paces, and the lord's sons were jealous of him.

One day, when they were all out hunting, Ivar Everard took a shot at a stag that was being chased through a clearing by the lord's hounds. But as he took the shot, the lord's elder son jostled against him, and the arrow struck the lord's favorite hound through the heart. The lord wept and raged and would not be comforted. Ivar Everard did not have the money to pay for the hound; he would have had to sell his wife and son to get it. So he offered himself in the hound's place, to run with the pack and hunt for the lord. And the lord agreed.

In this way Ivar Everard came to live in the kennels of the lord's hounds, and he found them clean and well kept."

The boy was openly delighted by the possibility of such a living situation. "How many hounds were there?"

"Two dozen alaunts, six limers, a score of running hounds and any number of raches and kennets."

"What, no boarhounds?" Mal inquired, either out of scorn for the indulgent detail, or for the unlikely variety in dogflesh. Possibly both.

"There were no boar in that country," Garvey countered, equally scornful, "as everyone knows, down to the last idiot child in-"

"Oh, you want to talk about _idiocy_, do you? You-"

"_Don't,_" the boy demanded petulantly, and they both looked at him in surprise. "I want to hear it; I want to hear the story. Were the dogs spotted or solid?"

"Both. And so Ivar Everard lived in the kennels and ran with the pack. He grew as fleet as the swiftest hound, and he learned the scent of doe and buck both, and of all the other birds and beasts in the lord's forest. And when he had run with the pack for a year and a day, the lord went to Ivar Everard and told him that he wished to reward him for his skill and effort. He gave a banquet in his honor, and in the midst of his banqueting hall he asked Ivar Everard to name whatever he desired and the lord would give it to him.

'I have run with your pack for a year and a day,' said Ivar Everard, standing before the lord and lady and all the nobles and rich merchants in the land, 'and in that time I learned much, but one thing I learned I count more valuable than all others. While I was a hound, I slept in a kennel that was wide and warm and well-lighted, and fed good food often, and allowed to roam free and hunt in the lord's forest. But I am a hound no longer, and will go back to a dark little hut in a poor little village, where there is never enough to eat and always the danger of thieves and marauders. The hounds are slaves to their master, but they are treated better and valued far more than the poor men under his care. And so for my reward, I ask the sword at your side, that one day I might run it through your dark heart.'

And because of the vow that was taken, the lord gave him the sword. Then Ivar Everard fled into the forest and the huntsmen were sent out to catch and kill him, but the dogs would not hunt him because he was one of their own. He escaped, and went back to his village, and he took his wife and little son and many other men with their wives and sons, and they all fled into the forest in defiance of the lord and his injustice. And there they lived for many years, until the final battle, which is a tale for another time."

And the boy looked carefully at the three of them, the two young men and the woman in the thick of the dark old wood.

And said, "Why didn't Ivar Everard ask the lord to change the laws, or to be fair?"

And the three of them were silent together, in the thick of the dark old wood, until the path split away like streams from a river and they walked together in the dappled sunlight.

Then Garvey answered:

"Because Ivar Everard was not a fool. He was poor and the lord was rich, and the rich never listen to the poor."

"Never?" said the boy in the dappled sunlight, skin all shadowed in the patterns of leaves.

Egan put his hand out to usurp a shadow, smiled a comfort at the thin arm beneath it. "And the rain it raineth every day!"

* * *

What's that, slipshod? You're appropriating themes of Irish mythology to expound on your views of oppression and class discrimation through the means of the INTRAWEBS?

YUP THAT IS PRETTY MUCH ALL I DO WITH IT

also: dang, you guys i forgot how much i love writing Egan. thus i have just decided the next chapter! A Story From Egan, Who Is Yeah Ok Just A Bit Mad But Mostly A Poet? Sort Of. Hmm.


	3. Egan

"Tell a story, Egan."

Garvey coughed in sudden amusement and had to clear his throat. "I don't think..."

The boy waved a dismissal and pressed on. "It's only fair. You know how they start."

Egan whistled at a bird.

The boy tugged at his hand. "Come on. Once upon a _time_," he prodded impatiently.

"Over and under and over and under," said Egan.

"There was a girl who was sewing," the boy concluded.

Egan's fingers twitched mildly. "Colder than the lily, higher than the rook."

"And she lived in a castle."

"Willow shadow," Egan murmured thoughtfully, as the patterns of the sun moved across his skin.

"A castle by a river. And she looked out the window because she wanted to go. Out of the castle." He patted Egan's sleeve. "Was she trapped in the castle?"

Egan snapped a leaf from a twig and handed it to him.

"Someone was keeping her there," the boy persisted, as the sap bled white into the palm of his hand, "weren't they?"

"Snakes," Egan confirmed.

The boy nodded, satisfied. "A bad king locked her up in the castle," he explained, with an upward glance at the audience, "and she wanted to get out and she looked at the river every day from the window."

"Why did the king lock her in the castle?" Garvey said gently.

The boy looked up at Egan, who had conjured a flame into the palm of his hand and was toying with it.

"Because she had fire," the boy said, after a moment, "she could call up fire in one hand and bring out water from the ground with the other, and the king was afraid she would burn someone or drown someone and he locked her up. And she was locked up for a long time, and then one day...one day..."

"Shodden silver, heel to nail. Boots and iron."

"And then one day she was at the window and a pigeon flew in with a letter," the boy gestured demonstratively, arms flapping fiercely, "from the prince. And he said he had seen her in the window and she was so sad up there he was going to send her a pair of magic boots that would help her get out. So he did."

"Sempiternal," murmured Egan.

"How did he get the boots to her?"

"He sent them up with his hawk. It was the biggest hawk in the whole Kingdom and he put the boots in a bag and it flew in through her window, and when she saw them she was so happy that she put the boots on right away and she went to the window and she jumped. And the boots were magic so she flew."

"Dirty white cloak in feathers. Singing."

"And they flew over the river and the forest, the boots and the girl and the hawk, and then they saw the castle below them and they landed there. On the roof."

"Neither pink nor pale," Egan mused, and looked intently down at the boy, who smiled.

"And the prince came up and saw her and fell in love, because she was so beautiful and she was never afraid. And they were going to be married. But the king was afraid the girl would burn down the castle and he told a magician to put a spell on her. So he did."

The boy paused expectantly, but something in the shifting leaves overhead had caught Egan's interest, and no amount of sleeve-tugging could distract him.

Mal sighed impatiently. "What was the spell, then?"

"The magician turned the prince into a merlin and he flew away. And the girl tried to fly after him but her boots turned into iron. The magician did that too. So she had to walk." The boy touched his hand to his chin, gravely.

"She had to walk for a long time."

Mal muttered something under her breath that the boy couldn't quite make out.

"She walked so far for so long that the boots wore out and when stopped she was on a hill and she couldn't see him anywhere."

"Out of the ash with the red hair," Egan added.

"And she made a fire with her hands that went up so high you could see the smoke anywhere in the world. And the merlin saw it and came and landed on her shoulder. And she called up water from the ground and put out the fire and then there was a lake all around the hill."

"Kiiske kiiske," Egan chanted quietly, and poked Mal in the shoulder. She ignored him.

"And then the boat came. It came out of a cloud that settled around the lake, and when it touched the land it turned into a little leaf with two drops of water on it and two little twigs that were oars, and the girl put it in a little box in her pocket. Because maybe she would want to sail sometime. And at night the prince turned into a man again so they would sit up all night and talk and sleep in the willows all day. In the shadows."

"How'd they get off the island?" Garvey inquired.

The boy pondered this carefully, staring at Egan all the while.

"I don't think they did," he concluded after a long moment. "Well. Maybe someday. But not for a long, long time."

"Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea," said Egan.

"But they had a lot of tea so they were happy. They lived happily ever after."

* * *

What's that, slipshod? You're appropriating important bits of various works of numerous poets to cobble out the dialogue of the Author's Obvious Darling?

SHUT UP IT'S LIKE ART OR WHATEVER

(someday you'll be sitting in that stolid green chair sipping your tepid latte and flipping absently through a list of Best Novels of Our Time, wondering about thirty or forty mundane little things that make up the imbrications of your day and suddenly your eyes will stumble and pause and a spark of recognition will light within them: _It's Like Art, Or Whatever: One Girl's Rise to Greatness Via the Means of the Intrawebs _

and envy of my victory shall wrack your very bones)


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